


my heavy shoulders never shrugged

by Astrotheology44



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Angst and Tragedy, Assisted-Suicide in a way, Existential Angst, Isolation, Just not coping, M/M, Mentions of Mental Illness, Murder, Psychological Trauma, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astrotheology44/pseuds/Astrotheology44
Summary: The burden of multiverse consciousness is not something Shouichi finds he is able to carry.Byakuran lifts it for him.
Relationships: Byakuran/Irie Shouichi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10





	my heavy shoulders never shrugged

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings all apply so please check them carefully and opt out if there is anything here that could trigger you. This is a heavy piece, written a bit fast and choppy in my opinion. I will be coming back for edits for sure. I wanted to explore an alternative where Shouichi gets multiverse consciousness and it ended up quite dark. Title is adapted from TENDER's Lost. Not exactly a recommended listen, but a good one nonetheless. Enjoy!

On an otherwise not peculiar day, down the corner of the streets near his rented apartment, Shouichi walks to fix the laptop he borrowed from his classmate. 

On that street, that day, in a flurry of shoulder pain and papers and yelps he is caught off balance and made to stumble. It takes him a while to understand he'd been bumped into by some maniac running carelessly around as he picks everything up, checks the integrity of his devices and dusts off. He can only notice how incredibly bizarre the offending teenager looks, the white-violet contrast very out of place against his small neighbourhood of greys and oranges and brick browns.

The troublemaking kid turns, doesn't bother to apologize, just looks at him smiling before running off again.

He goes to get his task done regardless and thinks nothing of it. It happens, even if he is a bit annoyed at the rudeness. 

This person, is a catalyst for something horrible, even if he doesn't feel it right then.

  
  


The awful sensation comes a couple of years later raining echoes upon echoes in a singular moment. 

A few years later he enrolls to his university of choice, hands out his documentation to be registered and there is the odd shape of white hair in the line next to him that his eyesight follows down. It's a way older man than the kid he saw but there is the sense of strange recognition in him, as a spiral begins to take shape in this thought. 

He registers a scary sharp pang of pain extending from his temples to the back of his head as if a halo, a forcing of his mind to accommodate itself multiple times. A loud push from within that cannot be ignored. 

Everything becomes at once too loud and bright, between the heightened sensations of steps he hears, pens and rustling papers at the registers, the loudness of the light in the room and the overload of people bumping against him. 

He's never once felt so suddenly struck in sickness before in life, and he runs out, and he runs home, signature for early enrollment postponed for the day.

From then on out, it's a curse taking shape. He starts having dreams at night that are so vast, so unfathomably complex that he wakes up dreadful. It's something he tries to ward away by removing stimulants, less caffeine and more soothing music in the belief that it can be a skip in brain health.

The dreams then turn to daydreams turn to daymares. The common denominator is they are all of him- except not quite. They are all different and yet similar.

He's never been much of a realistic or lucid dreamer but he dreams of himself as someone else every time, sees visions of things that feel like memories uncovered.

He sees himself crueler, kinder, as a son, a performer and artist like he had fantasized in the past, a soldier in an unknown place, a business official, or the same student he is with switched majors.

He thinks nothing of it, because people do dream at times- _even wildly_ \- but they carry on for each and every day during the next few weeks and every time the headaches accompany them.

He drags himself to fulfill basic things, excitement of a new chapter in life becoming eclipsed by worry as he signs the registration forms he had to very late, almost late enough not to get in.

If he looks in the mirror and focuses, it starts again. Sometimes he's just like normal- which is the most disconcerting because he has to turn then and look around. Sensing the same colors and smells and sights: same room but there is always- _he notices-_ one item that is misplaced, or one sound that he hears different (a neighbor's drilling one time, birds singing outside the other, singing). Or one person is switched up - a different knock on his door, one time the landlord, another his family, or he himself is not the same - sometimes the fog on his bathroom mirror lets up and his eyes are bluer, his face is bruised, his knuckles. It's always a tiny difference that becomes a focal point. 

In these explorations if he shuts his eyes enough, sometimes it's a woman's body he has, other times he looks entirely different but is still called Irie Shouichi. He sees- _not human, he thinks_ \- dark hands and feathers and other times he's chasing. It's a whirlwind, culminating in the visions of being close to death, or others in which for whatever the reason he is just now being born.

They feel real, way _too_ real. He considers the risk of having developed a neurological disease with a very opportunistic onset earlier in life and he spends the time after his first ever class reading up on symptoms.

Nothing seems to match the slightest bit of what he is experiencing. There are people in this world who may have dealt with similar things as schizophrenia, he considers. It's the only conclusion he can draw for now. He's going to get help, he thinks medication and whatnot will keep this monster at bay.

After all, it's not so much of an issue, until it becomes one.

  
  


Said white haired menace he saw in line ends up in his class. Comes up to him and offers him a taste from a suspicious but friendly enough bag of confectionery with a quizzical look.

"Do we know each other?" he jokes and Shouichi says "No?" too fast, but he means 'I think so..'

"Well, I'm Byakuran. Pleasure to meet you!" he extends a hand and Shouichi takes it and realizes he already knew the name and face he's received.

Byakuran lodges himself in the seat next to him at the first lectures he bothers to come in for, and they talk. He pauses a lot to think. He needs to think. 

Byakuran is a very curious being and very impressed with the bits and pieces of conversation they have. It's always topics that verge on getting his head hurt, that bring him close to an ongoing panic attack and he reasons this is how he has to manage for now.

After the first week of his classmate's interacting he realizes that it's bizarre he knew who this is- _delusions or not-_ but he knew exactly. They're becoming somewhat fast friends and he shouldn't bother to overthink it. Still, a day after the other introduced himself and Shouichi got back from classes he thought _-wondered- focused_ a bit- _'Where do I know him from?'_ and saw smiles, so many. And saw _chattering and conversations he never has had with this person, saw the other in a nasty light without asking to-like an intruder on a murder scene_ and then saw him in flashes that feel like _familiarity_.

It can be imagination, and he thought he had to reign it in and that's that.

Then the next time his classmate-friend brings in his materials the next day, sits down and complains, something is off.

"So they want us to do a paper on the entire course, but never redacted one themselves, _eh_? I hate-"

"You hate hypocrisy, I know." He catches himself finishing that sentence. 

The other pauses. "Well, yes. But I never told you that. Quite the mind-reader, aren't you?"

He shuts up and evades replying.

It happens again by noon, when they catch a break.

Byakuran returns with not only snacks but also flowers from the nearby florists'. The bouquet is set down before the other cracks his knuckles and sets to taking notes. It's snapdragons and fern decorative leaves. 

"Again? You got this yesterday." He asks, and pushes the flowers aside so he can have his own writing space devoid of stems and leaves. 

He realizes after from the falter in the other's writing hand and the look he's given that he got it wrong again.

"Is there something you want to tell me?" He's asked. He shakes his head no but he's suddenly very much _scared_.

  
  


The delusions begin threatening to blend in with his current reality the more time passes. He comes up with a theory, but it's so unbelievable he can't stomach it- literally as he finds himself doubling over in pain too often when he tries to understand the implications.

It's easier believing his mind is up to tricks- that he can get medication maybe.

He gets a call from an old classmate and is invited to their ten year reunion. Normally overjoyed, he'd been thinking about it for a while but now finds himself suspicious of the caller.

"Is this a prank? I heard about the bus accident the night before, all of them were in it. I saw it on the news."

"What are you talking about?"

"There's nobody from the old class left, right?

"You're freaking me out." The line clicks shut. He's not invited anymore. He could have _sworn_.

  
  


The press starts releasing titles he already saw and he gives up on following the news. Social media is turning out to be inundated by trends that he can surprisingly predict. He used to be at least a little bit excited by the performance updates in technology. 

On a cozy afternoon, he makes the mistake of thinking about that too much and he is transported to participate in a vision where he is seated at an IT conference, a respected and honored guest and the companies explain the newest systems to him. 

He goes to look them up that night. Nobody has nor is putting anything like that on the market, of course.

  
  


He tries telling his family after a month. 

"I think I need help." He says.

"Nonsense! You are doing great as you are with that brilliant mind and we are proud of you! Keep at it, alright?" His mother refuses to accept his call for therapy and even his sister praises him for once.

He sighs. Feels alone and frustrated. He wants to yell into the phone.

He tries telling Spanner from overseas, more in hiding than upfront. 

Spanner is a good friend that stuck with him through competitions and extracurriculars, even if he lives far away. He'd always lended a ear.

"Do you think it would be possible for anyone to connect to other versions of themselves? Hypothetically, of course."

"Unlikely." Is the curt reply he gets from the other, muffled by the lollipop he's consuming while working on a new gadget.

He does turn up to look at Shouichi through his screen after a while. 

"Something bothering you?" He asks.

Shouichi can't tell him after all, doesn't want to be feared. To lose anyone.

"Ah, no." And he goes back to the usual and one more month passes, summer into autumn.

  
  


"There's something isn't it? You're feeling guilty about something or it's _soo_ outlandish you can't say! Did you do something embarrassing?" Byakuran catches on, a perceptive light to him. He teases ruthlessly before handing Shouichi a drink of soda on a bench in the park, in between classes.

"Sorry, it's.. Incredible? _Impossible_ , I know. I've been trying to figure out how to explain this to you or _anyone_ ." He finally caves in, pulls out notes. Because if anybody is more likely not to judge- it's _probably_ Byakuran.

He brings up his scribbled symptoms and the theories he used to help himself understand his predicament in the nights it kept him awake.

The problematics of this validating the Parallel Worlds theory are less intimidating than figuring out his own role in the framework.

He explains what he can, panicking just slightly less, tries to gloss over the gruesome things he'd seen to not scare the other too badly- not that it's much a possibility with how interested Byakuran looks to him.

"Hm, so you're a superstar, a part-time _God_. Am I at least important in any of the worlds you see?" It's startling how easily the other accepts it as fact.

Nosy and romanticized as that sounds, Byakuran _is_ . Well, _other_ Byakurans. A common trait in his other iterations seem to be the quests for power and change.

Behind Shouichi's eyelids flood images of his friend in different states. Most Byakurans he sees lead either carefree lives or function as instruments of authoritative transformation, always focused on manipulating their resources with frightening charisma and no regard for consequences outside of their interests. Some succumb to rotten depressive episodes, aimless lives. But when it's ambitious, it's always something notable.

He's had a few images of hands enclosing around his neck, of Byakurans decked in suits and ties who _poison and trick and maim_ him in paranoia or control when finding out he refuses to lend his knowledge to their schemes for their respective worlds. 

He swallows thickly and is glad this is not one of those timelines.

There are, of course, those he remembers killing himself. _Stabbing, arson._ Those he remembers _kissing and-_ he stops,awkwardly.

"More than you know..

He tells him,in gratitude to be able to smile for a brief second in all the weariness.

Or maybe I _am_ just losing it." He laughs, adding after some silences pass, because it is still a possibility.

"No. I _know_." And then Byakuran shares, leaning back a bit and resting his arms on the wood.

"I traveled and I met you. I was out one day, waiting. I was going somewhere, I don't know. Just looking for fun. I think an event- not important, and some kid was playing around with a dangerous looking instrument. I asked him what was up out of curiosity."

_'Huh_?' Shouichi thinks.

"He shot me. I was fourteen and I ended up on the same street where everything looked different and it read another year on my phone. It was exhilarating. It made me happy to finally escape, because I didn't much believe in my life. When I realized none of it was so clear cut I was so excited. I was _free- he stops to grin_ \- I ran across the street and bumped into someone! That was you."

"I remember." So then that's why.

The other nods.

"The two futures must have merged for you when we met here. In a way..

Byakuran looks to him and crumples the unfinished soda can, throwing it wherever it may land towards the bins.

You could say I'm responsible for your pain, Shou-chan."

It's tempting to think that, but it doesn't solve anything.

"Um.."

"But I really you rather not! After all I didn't know or care about you at all then."

The brutal honesty is off putting but the implication he is cared for now is a small act of soothing.

  
  


It helps to have someone know and care, or so he believes at first. The next time they meet her is offered a suggestion.

"Have you ever tried looking for specific things?If the problem is a feeling of getting lost, it should be like meditating,

If you go in blindly you start to hear your thoughts and chatter all at once. But if you go in searching maybe you'll find answers."

Shouichi realizes that no, he hadn't _consciously_. He had been swarmed, overwhelmed by everything. But his friend might be onto something. 

He remembers wondering once about his mother and sister's wellbeing hard enough that he was greeted with images of only them in hyper focus, both diseased and healthy timelines. Both despondent versions and glowing. He'd been too saddened to see them in realities where they succumb to illness to narrow in and really focus. And the others.. it never ends up well. He'd never tried again.

Byakuran must realize, as he's tapped lightly on the hand from across the table to look up, that it's a hesitation born of terror. 

His friend opens his palms and places his hands down on the table facing Shouichi. A wide and inviting stance. He offers for a joined meditation session.

" _Focus on me."_ Byakuran tells him.

He takes a breath in and he does. He trusts at least someone is on his side for now in this time.

He finds himself seated in the same chair at the same table multiple times over, like disjointed movie scenes. He doesn't quite know what he wants to see of his friend still even with the slower breathing in synch. His visions _swarm again_. 

One Byakuran gets bored with him and rises from the table to leave and that's OK. Another is angry _-so angry_ with him. _' Wish it would have been me.'_ he says and grabs Shouichi by the neck to _squeeze_. 

He panics, winces and the hands holding his move to soothe and bring him back. He retracts his. He _can't_ do it.

"I'm not going to use it anymore. And maybe it will go away." He considers whether he can put it behind him just like that, suppress this ability for long enough. 

"If you don't find a way to handle this, - Byakuran warns from across the table. 

You're going to die. I'm serious." 

Shouichi knows he's serious. He'd been down as much as him for the past month it went on. He misses the initial unperturbed cheerfulness of the other and misses him as he was when they met.

Besides, he is right, the sudden bouts of insane sight threaten to wear away at his mind into nothingness unless he finds acceptance. There is no longer an ego he can cling to, no place to wonder that does not become all places and nobody to confide in as himself without all selves.

"I will. _I will."_ He says it,repeats it like a mantra to calm down.

Byakuran surely looks at him in discontent and what he can only hope isn't pity.

  
  


He tries then. Medications for sleep, medication for neurological predilections even if it's a long shot. One day it's all good. The other it goes down in flames.

 _Little things,_ he finds. And too much narrowing in obsessively on one person or idea can trigger the floating cloud of visions. It isn't helping that it feels as though he is _both_ on the outside looking in over full lives and on the inside of the entire flow of it, a splinter at all edges.

Sometimes it's as non-involved as watching a program on TV. Other times there is little escape from involvement with people and his own alternate's thoughts and feelings bring erosion.

He isn't going to let go without a fight, if he can only cling to a defined inner fire. 

Through focus he finds there are universes where he wields an external flame made of his own conviction, bright as sunlight in summer. Strange worlds but validating to know he can take control of a thing of power such as that and use it _to heal, to build, to construct and activate impressive structures._

He does want to know still whether he manages to fix anything big with music in any world. In some he finds he does end up as a fairly renowned guitar or bass-guitar player- never quite a legend and he knows he could do that now. If he really wanted to with all of his information, _he could_. It's strange to find out this makes him lose the taste for it.

  
  


"It's an intervention!" he's greeted with packs and packs of sweets a few weeks after the attempts and he looks _terrible_ , he's sure.

"I could find you the cure for diabetes. But I won't. You need to stop on your own." He dispassionately comments to his friend's addictions.

He's ignored in his bitterness and he's thankful for that, until Byakuran shovels handfuls of marshmallows in his mouth- _a sign of tension and overthinking_. It isn't a good look for either.

  
  


"Here's what I would do." 

Byakuran sits him down on the bed in his small apartment where he is tormented with the visions and takes him through what are wonderful in theory but wildly unethical in practice ideas- _to meddle with governments, to bribe political movements with the knowledge, to use medical discoveries to get strong allies on his side so that he gains influence, to look for access for top level secrets_. 

Some ideas are brilliant, some classic, some bizarre like dabbling into forgotten civilizations, confirming the existence or lack thereof of aliens and cryptids,so on and so forth. 

The cure for cancer, space travel facilitation, medical and engineering improvements as well as some ideas about art, he _does_ like. His friend sure thinks big, but he guesses the situation calls for it.

"Assemble these components..,

he draws little lines to connect the dots on a makeshift paper. 

Improve the system. Sure it will take some losses- even some alternative selves and people you might need to sacrifice. But if you pull it through, you can change things in a big way."

Shouichi looks over the squiggly lines on the graphs and says:

" I don't want to become any of that."

"If you have to kill me- " Byakuran _isn't_ listening "I would _understand_."

"B-but." He's tired. It's _exactly_ what he'd been fearing. _Losing_ himself and becoming like the daymares. 

" I mean that's just a dream after all-"

"Doesn't this prove it to you, _though_ , that all of living is but a dream? A game if you will, Shou-chan. It just matters how you play it."

"Please. You're not helping. I want it over with." 

It isn't what he wants. He just wants it all to end.

Besides, he knows what the other is saying, _suggesting_. Has seen this trait of his on numerous occasions when he shuts his eyes and thinks of his friend for more than a few minutes with intent.

There appear these other selves that put an end to lives for fun, for making such schemes take shape, who put an end often to his own livelihood. 

He puts a hand over his stomach and regrets.

He's sorry to see the disappointed look on Byakuran's face as he is given his space. 

No instance of Byakuran he can think of takes it kindly to being powerless. He can't dwell on it much, but there is a despondency, a depressing hull as he realizes he is hurting those around him in his state.

  
  


He's left alone and it only gets worse from there. 

He disconnects from Spanner. He's in over his head and only replies shortly.

"I will get to you when I figure out how to fix something." He says, and it isn't a lie. 

He hopes it's the truth but he knows better.

He can't open the door to the world for a while. He knows the people in the corridors, those at the bus stations - even if he hasn't met them directly here. He knows to read the menus and the product labels in bits of languages he never studies before - has only heard of spoken by _himselves_. 

He can probably figure out what the stock in stores will be in five months by comparison every time he wants to order something. It holds little to no bearing on the paralyzing weight of the fears, the memory of witnessing himself deconstructing - if not in his mind, then in the minds and bodies of his other selves.

He has memories of getting mugged in the store, murdered on the streets, entangled with people good and bad, of colder hims on the other hand of the stick, of drugs he'd never dreamt of putting him to sleep within these same walls he hides in.

He can't deal with anyone anymore. Even the services in the area have workers he knows the face and name of before he would call them in.

He never had been one for meditation but he wants to know, if he calls for help one more time, _what_ would happen.

He sits down, crossing legs and tries to figure it out. He's inundated by the usual names and faces from the people that both are and could be listed in his area for emergency service. 

He sees himself trying to explain the truth to them and being shut in a psychiatric ward to rot in there or to be studied in the thin chance that this is a world where they actually believe him.

It takes _a lot_ , head booming, neural synapses on fire to hold all of it. It takes more to stop the shaking of his hands and the cold sweat he's in when he tries to assess which is the most likely outcome for this timeline. 

He holes himself in and does not call. Can't find the thread of dedication he needs to keep to reach towards to keep going.

  
  


He contemplates in moments of waiting whether the other isn't right in his misplaced guidance. He _could_ revolutionize things with this. He could bring progress- _still_ . He could- _call, dare, do._

He knows the names and faces of notable people from worlds where he worked as high officials or outside of the law. Knows their character overall.

Or he could end it. He is beginning to feel like a _danger_ to everyone the more it goes on and that might be the best thing to do with the thin edge of sanity left.

He doesn't want to quit, but living like this may be no life to live at all. 

The people he meets, he _could_ help. But then he would see them _too often_ , so much more behind his skull under circumstances both malicious and beneficial that he is sure to harm them in the long run _\- or worse,_ not to have them matter at all in the end, _the loss of their humanity._

He barely sleeps for the weeks that follow because the dreams are the same as walking, just more stories and more iterations. The only joy comes when they are not about him and abstract to a fault.

  
  
  


The door opens with the careful work of a spare key he left with Byakuran because the other is the only one who still knows.

His friend wears his black coat over the white today and carries something covered and wedged in the back of it.

The door clicks shut behind and Shouichi self-consciously realizes he looks like hell again, dark circles and pale as the grave and _sick_ since the material aspects of it hadn't so much mattered in this maze of a state. 

He picks up his head from the floor and gives Byakuran a vacant look. He's given up recently.

He sees the way the other sighs and his shoulders slump, he's looking to Shouichi with a mixture of odd resolve and fire. Almost _doesn't_ want to look.

He knows what's going to happen, as his friend slips out of said elegant coat and sets it on to hang for no particular reason that matters.

He knows, when Byakuran kneels on the floor next to him and he finds he can't make words that matter anymore.

"I can help." The other says. And Shouichi knows what _this_ means, _too_ . Byakuran has such a selfish stubbornness. He'd told him _nothing_ can help anymore and yet here he is taking a space to meddle in and _refusing_ to quit.

He knows for certain that Byakuran is here to kill him. Not much a surprise. He's thankful. 

He could have done it himself if he hadn't already tried and seen _his guts spilled every time he took the scissors or the knives_ ,only to have to put them down and breathe and do hours of convincing work before trying again.

He had been building up a plan to end himself because he remembers from other hims, _how to drown, to choke, to shoot_. And yet some traitorous thought part of him still isn't convinced that this is the way to go, finds it ironic. 

He'd seen across that table with joined hands how they've killed one another before under various pretenses and circumstances.

_' But I'm a God now,_ ' he wants to say. He knows it's pretentious and curses himself for slipping enough to think himself that way in the end. _'I can still try.'_ He does not say, because he does not trust he can.

If he had known for sure he had to, that there is a clear greater good to forge here, he thinks he would fight for that.

Byakuran loads the revolver with a few clicks, puts it down on the floor beside them.

And then his hands, _ever so gentle,_ a grace like a _shield_ in confessionals, lean in. 

He puts them on Shouichi's temples, holds his face dearly close forehead to forehead and caresses the littlest of the tension out.

He's being studied with what he can only see as sadness, with understanding as the touch is grounding, _is an admission,_ is something he did not think he would get from anyone in this connection starved state anymore.

He doesn't mean to but with this, he _breaks_ . He slumps forward _and bawls and cries and screams incoherent 'Why me?s'_ into Byakuran's chest and the other lets him have it, pulls him in and holds him.

It's selfish but he clings with hands gripping clothes, desperately grabbing on for _human touch,_ for _anything_ that can tie him back to a singular self perceived by someone in this world.

And it's _odd_ , to feel this Byakuran's grip so tight and yet loose on him, so frail and so genuinely caring. 

In most worlds where the other involves himself with criminality his grip is still and he's not all there with Shouichi, not all there for anyone and definitely not _trembling_ nor _hesitant_.

It's odd to realize this too is a hurt his state brings, this world's Byakuran is _just his friend, just a human being, just -_

The other looks at him again in what feels like compassion. He tells him again, breathy and barely heard.

"I can _help_ ." And he draws a breath in. It's something other Byakurans do before disconnecting from a thing that is too heavy, the resolve. He notices the expansion of the other's chest as he is held, the contraction on the exhale, the small movements that reach besides them. He is yanked away by the head, looks in those warm- _distressed..? he would have never thought to live to see-_ lavender eyes and feels the cold kiss of the gun's metal gliding against his throat right before his head is blown.

  
  


It was a kindness that he'd been given because this world's Byakuran was just a person, _is now a murderer._

It's a bigger kindness he does not make it to see the other stand up to slump back on the bed, away and recoiling from his deed - _not one tie_ to any criminal organization prior nor predating experience exacting such cruelty. 

There is nothing to protect this Byakuran from the blood on his clothes and the shake of his hands, the heavy breaths of fear and the loud banging noise of what he's done to Shouichi.

Not much left to live for in a timeline where there isn't anything special to do. Fondness of uniqueness is his constant quality.

The fighting back of tears and wide eyes and cold sweat, the gun angled under the other's chin sliding down to deliver a second blow making a messier follow-up shot after much steadying and curses- _it's better that Shouichi does not exist any longer here_ to see any of it.

It's up to the forensics team to find them and make sense of the two bodies scattered across the apartment.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you're alright after that. Grab a glass of water, a cookie. I sure will need it after writing it. I can't seem to stop defaulting to 10051 ideas instead of working on other things I have to write.  
> Thank you for reading!  
> Feedback is, of course, always much appreciated.


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